Blue Moon Stories


A pensive 20-year-old girl sits at the window of a bedroom, her head resting against the glass. There are two empty beds in the room. It is early evening. No lights are switched on. A 15-year-old enters the room and watches her. She comes and sits next to her and calls to her softly-

“Dee Dee..”

There is no response. DeeDee’s hand, holding one of the window rods, slides down limply. The 15-year-old persists…

“I want to tell you something.”

DeeDee’s eyes blink and a tear rolls down her cheek. The 15-year-old continues quietly…

“Love is the most wonderful feeling in the world, yet this us what it does…

DeeDee won’t move.

“Please let go no DeeDee. Didn’t you say that memories are just past? You still have your present… I want to tell you something, but you have to pay attention to me…”

The 15-year-old glances at the pillow and we see a small edge of a diary peeping from under it.


At this moment, DeeDee faintly stirs, looks dazedly around the room, and slowly comes and sits on the bed.

The 15-year-old starts smiling to herself. DeeDee looks at the other bed and notices the diary. She immediately picks it up and lifts out the bookmark to go to the last written page.

“Dear Diary,

It was the stupidest day at college today. I hate that teacher. I broke my favorite bracelet also and lost it somewhere. I tried calling DeeDee to speak to her about it and I suddenly realized I had run out of balance. There are these moments that I simply HAVE to talk to her and no one else! And then suddenly, she called! She said she had this urge to call me right away and find out how I was doing. Can you believe it! I was soooo happyyy!!

This happens so many times with us. It’s so awesome. It’s like our souls are connected forever. We don’t need the phone! Hell, we don’t even need the words!! We don’t need anything. We are connected forever. ”

DeeDee breaks down sobbing, still holding the diary. The 15-year-old has disappeared.

Next to DeeDee is photo frame on the table. It has a picture of two little girls holding hands, grinning widely.

Speaking of Things

One Time DSLR

Today, it is eight years since she touched me. Eight years since that wondrous time I had with her in Italy- in sunny Bologna and dreamy Venice and blissful Florence. Eight years since I have been out of this dingy corner of her house. Eight long years of waiting for that touch that never comes. My fate is like that of my many friends after all. I am a one time DSLR, single use.

I am old and tired, anyway. Maybe even outdated. She perhaps has a younger model now who clicks better pictures of her. Makes her happier. Probably with him, she has already been to Rio or even Paris…

My time has come. I can sense it. The dark claws of death are creeping on me to take my light away. This dust and humidity is suffocating my insides. No more shutters and flashes and lights and colours…

Wait, something just happened. What’s this. Did someone just touch me? Yes! It’s her. Oh oh, she is picking me up. My eyes are opening…

A baby! There is a new toddler in the house! And you know what that means, don’t you?

Bye bye death, we will meet again another day. I have plenty of work now.

– One time DSLR no more.

Blue Moon Stories

My Pumbaba

DSC_7617 (Small)

It is raining. Mumbai. There are vehicles going by, cars are splashing water on the people standing at the bus stop, drains are overflowing, trees are bathing, umbrellas are giving up and turning upside down…and while a hundred different things are happening all at the same time, a beautiful piece of music binds everything together closely into one- the music of the rainwater! And suddenly, I am not alone anymore; there is familiar warmth of an old memory with me.

I must have been six years old when sitting at his feet, I would hum with him the notes he sang. I tried my best to sound like him. A big water cooler in the living room made a whirring noise that was a background note for everything and everyone in the house. As I sang, he would stop me and tell me to listen, listen closely and blend into the ‘sur’ the cooler made. When I finally started hearing the ‘sur’ of the cooler, I was ecstatic. Not only could I hear the music of the cooler, but I could also now hear music in the running tap water, in the New Year Eve’s campfire, in the drone of the refrigerator, in the wind that blew on a particularly windy day and in a truck’s horn. It was limitless. His music had entered me.

My Pumbaba was one of the most original men I met in my life- the kind of man who has seen the world in all its glory and gloom and could still see everything as it is, without colored glasses. He was my compass. I was grateful to be his grand-daughter. And I left it unsaid.

For a few months after he died, I dreamt of him every single night. In most of my dreams, he would just be sitting in one corner of the room, quietly, with his hands folded across his chest. And I kept looking at him trying to judge if he thought what I was doing was okay. Then one day, he was gone from my dreams. I would not see him every night. I called my mother and wept about it that day. “You will reach him wherever he is if only you sing, Aneesha”, she told me.

Today, every time I sing a song, every time I even hear a wonderfully sung song, I know he understands. It was he, afterall, who taught me this beautiful language that even words cannot corrupt. It is his music that is within me, deep in my genes. I still miss him, but I don’t need to see him in my dreams anymore.